


Father Brown & the Cat Irene

by okapi



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Case Fic, Cats, Gen, Irene is a very smart cat, Sid & Father Brown are partners in crime, The cat does get her tail burnt a bit, The cat does not die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 02:12:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19122484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: One morning, a beautiful Balinese cat shows up in Father Brown's study.Case fic. Cat fic.





	1. Chapter 1

“If I may borrow the words of a poet…”

Father Brown paused and cleared his throat. Then he closed his eyes and lifted his gaze heavenward and spoke with earnest solemnity.

“For I will consider my cat Irene. For, though I call her ‘mine’ out of affection and regard, she was not mine; she was borrowed for too brief a time from her unknown earthly guardian and borrowed, as all creatures are, from You, O heavenly Father for her allotted sojourn on this land. For she was shining example of intelligence, beauty, grace, agility, and charm. For she was—”

“Father Brown!”

Father Brown opened his eyes and spun ‘round in the direction of Sid’s pointing finger.

“There!”

“Irene!”

As Sid made a dash for the white feline shape which had disappeared into the shrubbery, Father Brown looked up and said quickly,

“For she is of the house of Lazarus! Hallelujah! Amen!”

As he hurried after Sid, Father Brown recalled the unusual sequence of events that had brought him hold as memorial service for an apparently undead cat.

* * *

The whole affair began four days earlier on as ordinary a day as Father Brown had ever known until Mrs. McCarthy brought a message that the new bishop, Bishop Alexander, desired a private meeting with Father Brown.

Father Brown was immediately on his guard. As he made his way to his study, he wracked his memory for an incident or circumstance that might have brought him to the bishop’s attention. He could think of none.  

He’d just said a prayer and put the whole matter in the hands of a much higher authority when he walked into a scene so unexpected as to put even a mysterious, unscheduled appointment with a bishop wholly out of his mind.

A cat.

On his desk.

A fluffy cat with a white body and black face, ears, feet and tail, was perched on the corner of Father Brown’s desk. The cat turned its sparking blue eyes towards Father Brown and looked as if the study and everything it contained were property of the cat and he, Father Brown, had shown up without an appointment.

“Hello,” said Father Brown.

“Meow,” replied the cat.

On instinct, Father Brown bowed. The cat seemed to appreciate the gesture, and it also brought Father Brown close enough to read the writing on the cat’s collar, a leather band with silver studs dotted with blue glass gems. The glass was the precise colour of the cat’s eyes.

“Irene, I’m Father Brown.”

“Meow.”

“Father Brown!” From the hall, the voice was low and urgent. “The bishop has arrived!”

Father Brown turned sharply toward the half-open door. “Tea, Mrs. McCarthy,” he replied hastily, his conspiratorial hiss matching her own.

“Yes, Father.”

“And whose cat is this?” he called.

“What cat, Father?”

“This…”

Father Brown was about to turn back when he heard another voice, this one a deep, barrel-aged baritone, and jumped.

“Do forgive me, Father Brown, for this unexpected intrusion upon your time.”

“Not at all, Bishop. Welcome. Please excuse—” Father Brown turned and, to his astonishment, saw no cat whatsoever. “—my untidiness,” he amended quickly. He circled ‘round the desk, his hands making a pantomime of straightening books and papers while his eyes darted about, frantically in search of the absconding feline. “Please have a seat. Tea will arrive momentarily.”

The bishop did as bid. He was a tall man with a lean form, which he carefully and elegantly folded into one of the two chairs on the far side of the desk. As he turned his face to Father Brown, Father Brown noted, and not for the first time, the full lips, arched brows, and strong chin of his superior. The late Renaissance beauty of the bishop’s features, however, were clearly marked by acute distress. His skin was wan, and his expression lined, and his mouth drawn.

Though concerned by the bishop’s appearance, Father Brown was beset by two more immediate discomfitures: one, not knowing where the cat had got to and, therefore, not knowing at what inopportune moment it would make its presence known, and, two, the awkwardness of conducting an interview with his superior across his own desk.

Mrs. McCarthy came to the rescue on the latter point as she brought in the tea.

“I think you’d be most comfortable here, Father,” she said as she set the tea things on the desk and pulled out the second of the smaller chairs opposite the bishop. She unnecessarily arranged and rearranged the cushion and said in a nagging tone, “Your back, remember?”

“Right you are,” agreed Father Brown whose back had never been better.

As Father Brown sat, he glanced about the floor and still saw no sign of the cat. He then began to wonder if the animal had been a figment of his imagination.

Mrs. McCarthy fussed about with the tea and took her leave.

The bishop and Father Brown exchanged pleasantries, which included the requisite observations on the weather. When the bishop returned his cup to its saucer with a decided clatter and took a deep breath, Father Brown leaned forward in anticipation of a segue to more substantive conversation.

“Father Brown, what I have to come to discuss with you is of a highly sensitive nature. It’s not an exaggeration to say that I am putting myself, my whole career, in your hands and relying on your judgement as well as your complete discretion.”

Father Brown’s brow furrowed, and he raised a halting hand. “To that end, if I may.” He rose and went to his study door. He looked up and down the corridor and seeing no one about, closed the door firmly with the ‘Do Not Disturb’ placard hanging from the doorknob. Then he went to the window behind the desk. He glanced outside, then drew the white half curtain.

Looking down, he saw her.

Irene.

She was sitting as still as a statue upon the sill, tucked between the curtain and the pane, her tail curled against her lower body.

She glanced at Father Brown with a bored expression, then returned her sapphire gaze to the world beyond the glass.

“There,” said Father Brown, pivoting to obscure the silhouette of the cat behind him. “You may speak freely, Bishop.”

“Thank you. I know that we haven’t known each other for very long, Father Brown, but by every account that reaches my ears, you’re a problem solver, and I find myself with a very serious and very delicate problem.”

Father Brown smiled modestly. “I’m afraid your predecessor would have said I was a problem finder, perhaps even a problem maker or worse, but…” He opened his hands, palms up, in a gesture of resignation and self-deprecation.

“Well, that is part of the matter. Every day, I’m waging an uphill battle to restore faith and trust in the position following Bishop Talbot’s departure. And only a few months into the job, I’m already threatened by my own personal scandal. You have only my word for it that I am a good man and a good priest and intend to serve and lead with circumspection. I would not fault you for doubting my claims and refusing to help me. Nevertheless, I put myself in your hands and will act according to your counsel.”

Father Brown nodded. “A scandal?”

“To put it bluntly, I am being blackmailed.”

Father Brown’s eyebrows rose.

“The situation, like most of its kind, I suppose, has its roots in the past. When I was a seminary student, I befriended a promising artist and his younger sister. His sister developed what you might call a youthful infatuation for me.”

Given how handsome the bishop was now, as a venerable cleric, Father Brown could well imagine that the young lady was not alone in her admiration, but he said nothing.

“I had a vocation. I did not encourage her attention, but she persisted, and at one point, I had to be firm, very firm. She did not take the rejection well, and her bitterness towards me put irrevocable strain on my friendship with her brother. We drifted apart, and I have not heard from either of them in more than two decades.”

“And now?”

“And now, my friend John is dead.” He swallowed and bowed his head for a moment. Then he looked up at Father Brown. “He died in Italy. His body and his belongings were shipped to his sister in England and now she is in possession of a certain sketch as well as his diary from the time when he and I were friends.”

“A painting?” repeated Father Brown.

“Apparently, John was inspired to use my likeness for one of his more ecclesiastical works. I did not pose for it. I did not even know of the painting’s existence until now.”

“What was the subject?”

The bishop looked away. He sighed. “Saint Sebastian.”

“Oh,” said Father Brown knowingly.

“Yes.”

“And the diary?”

“It revealed the profound depth of her brother’s feeling for me.”

“Ah. Is that news to you as well?”

“No. You may believe me or believe me not, but John’s feelings were reciprocated but never acted upon. I thought, and I still think, that this,” he touched his collar, “is my calling, and I accept its limitations and sacrifices as well as its boons. The secular life, frankly, never held much appeal. John’s sister Stella demands that I resign my post and leave the priesthood within a week or she will alert my superiors as well as the press and put a most sordid twist on the whole business.”

“Hell hath no fury,” mused Father Brown ruefully.

“And a revenge served very cold,” added the bishop.

“Yes.” Father Brown hummed. “Well, as uncomfortable as it is, let’s deal with facts instead of adages. You know she genuinely possesses the things she claims to possess?”

“When I learned of John’s death, I went to pay my respects. We had tea.” The bishop’s sorrowful countenance became positively grim.

One of Father Brown’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed?”

“Yes. The painting was in the attic of her home. The likeness was readily apparent, though the musculature a bit flattering and the,” he coughed, “expression on the saint’s face…”

“Ecstatic?” suggested Father Brown, who’d seen a fair number of Saint Sebastians in his day.

“Yes. Stella gave me one page of the diary and assured me there was much more in the same vein. My instinct is to give into her demands. I have no wish to bring further shame upon the office.”

“But?”

“But where would I go and what would I do? And how dare she use John to further her own petty grievance!” At this, he got to his feet and began to pace a line before the closed door. “Is there any possibility beyond scandal and ruin?” he asked the bookcase.

Father Brown rubbed his chin. “Your week ends when?”

“Sunday. I am to make an announcement, or she will.”

“And the lady’s name?”

“Stella Carruthers. She lives in Little Windrush in a big house with ten cats.”

“Cats!” exclaimed Father Brown as, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of a black tail. Really, the days seemed to be taking on a decidedly feline leitmotif. He returned his attention to the bishop and said,

“First, know that regardless of the outcome, everything you have told me today will be held in strictest confidence. It may go without saying, but I find that sometimes stating the obvious helps.” He smiled. “Next, give me two days to see what might be accomplished. If there is any change in her demands or in your decision, please let me know at once.”

The bishop’s expression lost a bit of its chiseled tension as he nodded. “Thank you, Father Brown.”

“Oh, and by the way, you aren’t yourself, by any chance, missing a cat?”

“Me?” The bishop looked startled, then he shook his head. “Beautiful creatures, but hell on the vestments, Father.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is based on the Sherlock Holmes story "A Scandal in Bohemia." Irene is a Balinese cat. Written for the DW 100 Fandoms prompt 013: borrowed.


	2. Chapter 2

“Father,” said Sid by way of greeting as he sauntered into the study without waiting for a reply to his knock. “Lady Felicia said you wanted a word.”

“Shut the door, Sid.”

“Is it about your old friend Flambeau?”

“No, why do you say that?”

“Haven’t you read the papers? Someone stole a rare sapphire necklace in London right off the neck of the countess who was wearing it. The crime’s got your pal’s signature all over it.”

“I’ve got more pressing matters. Do you know this cat?”

Sid glanced the cat, which was now curled in Father Brown’s lap. “I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, but then again I don’t give pussies much of a look these days.” He blew the cat a cheeky kiss.

The cat glared indignantly and hissed, “Meow!”

“Sid, this is Irene. Irene, Sid.”

Sid tipped his hat in the cat’s direction before he sat. “Charmed I’m sure. I didn’t know you were a cat lover, Father. All that shedding hair must be hell on the vestments.”

“I love all God’s creatures, Sid, even ones who attempt to besmirch my furnishings with their muddy boots,” Father Brown stopped petting Irene and leaned forward, the better to shove Sid’s feet away before they settled on the far corner of the desk, “Irene appeared here in my study this morning. Mrs. McCarthy hasn’t yet been able to track down her owner, but clearly, she is well-cared for by someone.”

“Yeah, I can see that, but did you summon me to talk about cats?”

“In a way. I have a job for you. Do you know Little Windrush well?”

“I’ve got friends all over, Father,” said Sid, leaning back in the chair.

“I need you to go to Little Windrush tomorrow and find out everything you can about a Stella Carruthers, including, if possible, the layout of her home. Be as thorough as discretion allows.”

Sid nodded. “Where do cats come in?”

“Miss Carruthers has ten.”

“Meow!” said Irene as Sid wrinkled his nose.

“And that’s all you’re going to tell me?”

“For now. I need to think.”

“Is it a three-pipe problem?”

Father Brown started. “That’s Sherlock Holmes!”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got your contralto named Irene, don’t you?” said Sid, getting to his feet. “’To him, she is always _The_ Cat,’” he added with mock solemnity.

“Meow!” agreed Irene.

Father Brown looked from the cat to Sid then back to the cat. “That’s it! Oh, Sid, you’re brilliant!”

“God’s creature, remember?” said Sid with a wink. He gave Irene a nod. “Good day, Madame.”

“MEOW!”

“I know,” said Father Brown after Sid had left, “he’s a bit of bounder, but we love him still. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my dear, I have a master to consult.” He made to gently pitch Irene out of his lap while fixing his gaze on the far end of the bookcase where his small, but well-loved set of secular volumes were kept.

* * *

“You’ve done very, very well, Sid.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” said Father Brown. “Don’t you think so, Irene?”

“Meow!”

Father Brown and Irene were in mirrored poses hunched over Sid’s maps and sketches, studying them with care.

“Servants?” asked Father Brown.

“One,” said Sid.

“Day off?”

“You’re in luck. Tomorrow. Just what are you planning, Father?”

“I am going to enter a residence under false pretenses, test a law of human nature, and commit a crime, a theft, to be precise.”

Sid’s gaze narrowed. “By yourself?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t be alone. Irene will be there.”

“Meow!” piped up Irene.

“You think that cat’s going to help? No offense, but she’s not exactly the cavalry. I’m going with you.”

“Are you prepared to be full Watson, Sid? Even running a chance of arrest?”

Sid smirked. “I am your man. Born for the role. Now, what ‘law of human nature’ are we testing?”

“Fire exposes priorities—as do cats!”

* * *

“Good afternoon, Madame, I’m Father Brown,” said Father Brown when the door was opened. He gave her his most vacant, simple, Norfolk dumpling expression as he raised a small, empty kennel by the handle. “Have you, by any chance, seen my cat?”

Stella Caruthers’ lovely face took on a blank expression. Then she frowned, put a dainty hand to her cheek, and shook her head. “Your cat?”

“Irene. She’s a white and black, with very striking blue eyes and a blue collar,” continued Father Brown. “About so big. I think, she is somewhere nearby…”

Just then, feline pandemonium erupted inside.

“Irene!” shouted Father Brown as he lunged forward. “If I might!”

“Flopsy! Mopsy! Cottontail! Tabitha! Duchess!”

While the lady of the house was attempting to restore order to the chaos, Father Brown hurried after Irene, who had deftly removed herself from the fracas she’d just instigated and was racing up the staircase.

“Please forgive the intrusion!” cried Father Brown apologetically. “So terribly sorry! Irene! Irene! Come back!”

“Excuse me? Excuse me! What are you doing? Where are you going? Oh, stop it, Ribby! Stop it, I say, now! Benjamin! Peter! Mister McGregor, that is enough! Nutkin! Sir! Uh, Father?”

Irene found the attic first.

“A thousand apologies, Madame,” said Father Brown when a flustered and flushed Stella Carruthers had caught up with him. Irene was in the kennel, the door of which was closed, but not latched. “She does love a good chase. I am terribly, terribly sorry. I’ll be going. So sorry to trespass. Oh, my! Do you smell that? Smoke! Fire! FIRE!”

And with that, Father Brown tipped the kennel, and Irene made a wild, but not unplanned, escape.

“Irene!”

Father Brown followed quickly behind the fleeing cat, but as soon as he exited the attic, he pressed himself to the wall and waited.

In less than a minute, he saw Stella Carruthers dart out with a rolled canvas in one hand and a small green-covered book in the other.

“Irene! She’s gone that way!” Father Brown pointed down the hall.

“No, Father,” said Stella Carruthers. “She went this way. I see her downstairs.”

“Oh, thank heavens!”

The ground floor was filling with smoke.

“My precious ones!”

Stella Carruthers set the items in her hand on the sofa and attempted to herd the cats out the back of the house.

“I’ll open the windows!” cried Father Brown. He took the rolled canvas and the book and dropped them out the unlatched window into the shrubbery and Sid’s waiting hands.

“And one for road,” suggested Sid.

“No! Home, Sid, and don’t spare the horses.”

But Father Brown’s words came too late. Something flew over his head, and then there was more smoke and an eldritch shriek.

The tip of Irene’s tail was aflame as she shot out of the room.

“IRENE!”

And for the first time, Father Brown meant it.

He raced after Irene but ended up colliding with Stella Carruthers.

“My cat! Irene!

The two of them turned just in time to see Irene, her tail still smoldering, flying through the garden and the throng of escaping cats towards an old potting shed.

“Oh, no!” gasped Stella Carruthers. “The fertiliser!”

BOOM!

* * *

“I suppose you could just call me ‘curiosity,’” said Sid gloomily.

Father Brown looked at him.

“Because I killed the cat,” explained Sid.

Father Brown fingered the blue collar and sighed and shook his head.

“So, you never said just how you got away so quickly.”

“I simply took advantage of the confusion.”

“She didn’t notice those things were gone?”

“She has by now, I’m certain, but no, our smoke screen was very effective.”

“Yeah,” said Sid. “But that cat was something else. She was the real Watson.”

“True. To me, she will always be…”

They spoke as one.

“… _The_ Cat.”

Sid stood. “Time for me to go. I suppose the bishop is on his way to collect his things.”

Father Brown shot him a look.

“Oh, come on, Father. It’s _my_ neck and _my_ freedom I risked today. I’m entitled to a look at the goods!” Sid smiled. “Secret’s safe with me. And, uh, sorry again about your cat.”

“She wasn’t even _my_ cat.” Father Brown opened a desk drawer and dropped the collar in it. He shut the drawer with a solemn thud. “Tomorrow I’m going to go back to visit Stella Carruthers in my official capacity.”

“That’s not smart, Father.”

“No, but perhaps, well, perhaps there’s something I can do for her. No one is incapable of redemption, and I suspect that no one has listened, really listened, to Stella Caruthers in a long time. Nevertheless, when I return, I’d like to say a prayer for the late Irene. In the rose garden. Maybe around four o’ clock?”

“I’ll be there,” promised Sid. “To pay my respects.”

* * *

Father Brown spent most of the following day at Little Windrush with Stella Carruthers. He returned exhausted, covered in ten varieties of cat hair, but satisfied that the suffering of at least one soul in the great world was less than when he’d woke that morning.

His heart sank, however, when his thoughts returned to Irene. He remembered a poem he’d read once about a man who’d loved his cat and kept it in his thoughts as he stood before the roses with Sid by his side.

He was just getting into his stride with the prayer when—

“There!”

“Irene!”

They ran. They jumped. They scrambled. They searched hither and thither—but mostly thither—until both were red in the face and panting hard.

“Are you certain, Sid, that it was her?” asked Father Brown between gasps.

“Yes! I swear it was that cat, Father.”

“But even if she survived the explosion, how could she have found her way back here? It must have been a different cat.”

“But she had the collar on! That bright blue collar!”

“Then it couldn’t have been her. Her collar is in my study.”

“Are you certain, Father?”

They looked at each other.

* * *

Father Brown slid open the drawer with a mild trepidation.

No collar. Just an envelope with his name.

“Oh,” breathed Father Brown, recognizing the elegant hand.

Sid made a noise of disgust. “I should’ve known. That bastard. I’ll see you tomorrow, Father.”

Father Brown picked up the envelope and opened it.

* * *

_Dear Father Brown,_

_Thank you for taking such good care of my Irene. I knew that she would be safe with you. I did not, however, anticipate the little adventure you had planned for her. But I think she proved as expert an accomplice for you in your scheme as she was for me in mine. She such a clever darling. You didn’t really think an exploding shed could fell her, did you? Where is your faith, Father, in the creatures upon whom your god has chosen to bestow nine lives? Irene and I are much the same in that respect. And she appreciates fine gems as much as I do. Nothing but the best for my sapphire-eyed queen._

_The police have been something of bother these last few days, and let’s be honest, cat hair is hell on the secular vestments as well as the clerical ones, but now everything is resolved and I’m ready to bid Blighty adieu once more._

_By all reports, Irene’s beloved—my Persian Sebastian—has been pining for the want of her something dreadful. He can finally rest easy knowing she and I are on our way home._

_Until next time,_

_Flambeau_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also inspired by the art which depicts [Saint Irene tending Saint Sebastian](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Sebastian_Tended_by_Saint_Irene).

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
